I had been playing a lot of Santana CDs when I heard Dervish singing, “I got a Black Magic Marker,” and I knew—deep down—I should’ve been more concerned.
But I was preoccupied with the basement flooding. Dervish had opened the door to let a few of his squirrel friends ride out the storm indoors. I was too busy mopping up after them to notice he’d slipped out.
Unfortunately, by the time I caught up with him, he’d already been thrown out of the grocery store. Again.
This time, for writing phrases of anarchy on the eggs. Some of his egg-inspired manifestos included:
Bite the Power
Make Cake, Not War
Poach the Rich
